Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2)

by Terry W. Ervin II

  The pale welts on his exposed hands and face said he’d been hit by at least a dozen Stegmar needles, at least that I could see. I didn’t bother to try and decipher more of the medical screen display to get an accurate count. Even a maximum dose of anti-toxin couldn’t counter the number I counted. Not for long.

  The alien toxin had paralyzed him, and four patches on his neck had hopefully muted most of his pain.

  His eyes opened when I took his exposed hand into mine. They tried to focus on me.

  I leaned close, gently gripping his hand, trying to think on what to say.

  “If nobody told you, Marine, our mission is a success. We control the Primus Crax frigate.”

  I glanced over at the screen to get the Marine’s name since the blanket covered his name tag. “We couldn’t have done it without you, Lieutenant Yuxiong. You’re dedication, loyalty, and willingness to sacrifice.”

  I swallowed hard, maintaining eye contact. What I was sharing with the dying lieutenant, I was saying to my departed friend, Kent O’Vorley. “Thank you.”

  Lt. Yuxiong’s grip became firm, shaking. The monitors flashed from yellow to red. The corpsman placed a gentle hand on the dying man’s forehead. There was nothing we could do to save him, so I leaned close to his ear and recited the 23rd Psalm.

  His grip slackened as I spoke. He was gone by the time I finished.

  In a quiet voice the corpsman asked, “That was from the Old Testament?” He was a thin man. His actions demonstrated caring for the wounded and dying. They were measured and meticulous.

  I nodded, placing the dead Marine’s hand on his chest.

  “What if he wasn’t of the Jewish or Christian faith, Specialist?”

  I shrugged. “Hope,” I said, meeting the man’s questioning eyes. “The lieutenant’s faith, his God will understand, and welcome him none the less.”

  “His file said he was atheist, Specialist. In his last moments you whispered a prayer in his ear.”

  “Lieutenant Yuxiong’s dying moments, a human voice to see him off, the offer of hope.”

  “What right did you have, Specialist. You’re not even a Marine.”

  I stood, looking down at the man still squatting next to the lieutenant’s body. “Corpsman, if he was an atheist, and he’s right, what does it matter now?” I kept my voice low and even. Still anger crept in. “And if I’m right? Just reminding him of an option before his last breath. If I’m right, what difference might that make?”

  The corpsman shut off the emergency medical monitoring equipment and removed several leads from the lieutenant’s head and neck.

  Now wasn’t the time or place for a fight. “Hope,” I said. “An assurance his sacrifice meant something. That he made a difference. A sincere voice speaking to him. Offering him comfort, and hope. Atheist, Hindu, Muslim, whoever. When it’s my time, I hope there’s someone there for me.”

  “Hope you say?” The corpsman shrugged and pulled the blanket up over the dead Marine’s face. “In this war, we all need hope.”

  None of the other wounded Marines died while waiting for the shuttles to land, the bay to close and pressurize. When it did, the floor began lowering. It surprised me—and Pallish and Nollie. The nurses and corpsmen didn’t appear concerned, so I just took it in stride. The walls became smooth and featureless, except for the one with the bands of color. Those remained, extending all the way down, as did the poles along the wall opposite the entrance.

  We dropped about twenty feet, slowed and stopped. If I hadn’t had my eyes open, it would’ve been hard to tell we were moving.

  About two feet off the floor, along the wall with the poles, was a window. It was long, stretched oval. About four feet above the window, a seam ran across the wall.

  I hunched down to see what the window revealed.

  “What’cha see, Specialist Bleys?” Private Nollie asked. I felt his eyes on me, but not as much as Pallish’s.

  “Four shuttles unloading Marines in servo-armor,” I said. “Heavy lasers and large bore MP rifles. Two medical shuttles, two assault shuttles. Pretty cramped in there.” Someone had said there was only room for three shuttles. Probably McAllister. “I count thirty-eight Marines forming up. Female unit.”

  One of the corpsmen, a Master Chief Hospital Corpsman, moved his hand to his ear, then spoke into his collar. “Understood, sir. Will do.”

  He pointed to me and Corporal Pallish. “You two, carry your Marine to Med Shuttle NYB-244. Private Nollie, you’ll board with Private Brooker.”

  The master chief put his hand to his ear again and nodded in understanding. “Corporal Pallish and Specialist Bleys, looks like you’re the only healthy ones with orders to depart this wave. Report to GAS-448R. Pilot Madeira is expecting you.”

  “Will do, Chief Gibbons,” Corporal Pallish said, a little disappointment creeping into his voice.

  As I was checking my gear, making sure all was secure, the window wall slid outward and then up, revealing the bay and its contents.

  Securing a pair of telescoping poles, we converted the floor mat Brooker rested on into a stretcher. Pallish took the front and I lifted from the back. We hurried out so the waiting Marines could enter the elevator room and get into the fight. A dozen of them assisted the nurses and corpsmen carrying Marine bodies.

  Delivering Brooker to the med shuttle’s nurses and doctors, I wished Nollie luck and a quick recovery. Corporal Pallish patted him on the back and expressed a hope the private would be able to rejoin the squad soon.

  “Come on, Specialist,” Pallish said. “Faster we’re out of here, the sooner they can deliver more Marines.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Nodding once, I followed, whispering a prayer for all those who died fighting the Crax today, and to keep those safe who yet faced danger, no matter their faith, or lack thereof.

  Ground Assault Shuttle 448R was a new, short range model that didn’t show more than an arcing pattern of patched gouges. The pattern suggested being sprayed by Gar Crax acidic artillery. We strode up the ramp and into the troop compartment.

  Pallish stepped forward and called into the pilot’s compartment. “Corporal Pallish and Security Specialist Bleys boarding as ordered for transport to the Brisbane.”

  I selected a seat where I wouldn’t see the pilot, but had a narrow angle of sight through the pilot’s window, normally where a copilot would sit. Why there wasn’t a copilot, I wasn’t sure.

  The entry ramp retracted and the hatch closed while Pallish and the pilot exchanged a few words. I secured my shotgun, placed my helmet under the seat, removed the nostril tubes, and shut down the supplemental oxygen supply.

  While shedding my pack and anti-grav harness, Pallish said, “Ninety seconds till departure. Turn around and I’ll remove your CNS modulator, then you get mine.”

  “Sounds good.” They were painful to remove, especially if you tried to reach back to do it yourself. I loosened my collar and waited. I was about to ask Pallish what he was waiting for, when he rested a hand on the side of my neck. Did he place something there?

  I reached up to check and he snatched my hand while slamming me forward, pressing my face against the wall. The lowered seat caught me just below the knees, knocking my legs out from under me, depriving me of leverage.

  The Colonial Marine corporal’s right hand caught me reaching for my revolver. I tried to shout to get the pilot’s attention, hoping he wasn’t in on this, but all that came out was a gush of air. My neck felt slack, lacking strength, and my focus became fuzzy. Knock out—paralysis patches? With his body pressed against mine and his leverage, I’d never pull my revolver in time, or reach my stun baton. I fought to reach my com-set, placing my fingers on the buttons.

  Pallish leaned close and growled in my ear. “The infamous Specialist Keesay. You weren’t so hard to capture.”

  I thrust my head back and toward the ear he spoke into, but the weakness in my neck and shoulders blunted the strike. Not even enough to bruise his cheek. To distract him, I
tried to yell again, struggling to keep awake, alert. I programmed my com-set for alarm, to Loki’s Lady’s emergency frequency. Pallish wouldn’t detect it broadcasting until…he wouldn’t just smash it. Six taps…six…minute delay…or was…it sixty…? Then, I thumbed…the…lock…out.

  Chapter 34

  I awoke, hands bound behind me. Plastic zip cuffs. My ankles as well, and I had a cloth gag tied across my mouth. I was on my stomach, my left arm and shoulder asleep. Sharp needles of pain raced along them when I shifted. It was dark, hot, and muffled, like being sealed up inside a sleeping bag.

  Pallish’s voice, sounding as if I was listening with my ear pressed against a closet door, asked, “How long will the maintenance crew be fooled?”

  “We’re almost ready,” a female voice said. It had a slight nasal tone, one filled with confidence. Like someone used to giving orders. An officer? “It’ll be chaos out there. Everyone scattering before she self-destructs.”

  “Unless that engineer I was telling you about can do something. She hacked into the Crax system like their code was written by a retarded Relic.”

  “As long as Fleet is focused on what’s going to happen and responding to that, it’s to our benefit.”

  A moment of silence followed before boots against metal flooring approached. Something sounding like a crate next to me was scooted aside.

  At the same time, the female said, “Have the dolly bot park it over there. And be quick about it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied an uncertain voice.

  This fellow wasn’t part of the conspiracy? I took a chance and yelled, despite being gagged. My reward was a boot to the head, twice…thrice.”

  Darkness swallowed the pain.

  Rather than a groggy awakening, the next one was filled with throbbing pain. Like a horse had kicked me in the head. I refrained from groaning and listened. Still cuffed, still in the dark. Hot, and covered in sweat. The air was warm, humid, and stale. The floor was vibrating, like a ship—or shuttle—moving. No disconnected feeling, eliminating condensed space travel, for the moment.

  Pallish knew who I was? How? Did he recognize me? The pain and difficulty breathing made it hard to think. Smith named me when we first met outside the breaching pod. Did he discover it then? McAllister had called my name once during the fight. But there was no way Pallish could’ve planned or organized in that short of time. Pilot Arnold? Was he in on it? Planning on getting a cut of the bounty?

  Good luck with that, I thought. Capital Galactic would sooner put an MP round to his head than hand over credits it didn’t have to. Treacherous as CGIG was, a round to the head for anyone who brought me in to claim the bounty wasn’t out of bounds.

  “Captain Sanchez,” a new voice said. Male and edged with concern. “We’re receiving a radio contact from a shuttle. She identifies herself as Loki’s Lady. I think it was that long range shuttle that fed intelligence to the strike group while en route.”

  The male voice continued after a breath. “We’re getting a call from a breaching pod… BP-J-132. Obviously, I’m not acknowledging or responding.”

  That was Turbo Crank’s number. I didn’t move, and struggled to breathe at a steady pace so that anyone nearby wouldn’t know I was awake.

  “Analyze the signals,” Captain Sanchez said in her authoritative, nasal voice. “Strength, and are they vectored at us or non-directional?”

  “They’re on the medical flotilla’s frequency, our specific channel,” the pilot replied. “Our equipment isn’t designed for such intelligence gathering. Give me a moment.”

  “We may not have more than a handful of moments,” the captain said. “The pod doesn’t have the range, and probably not the authority to pursue us. The long range shuttle could be a corporate freelancer, or maybe with Intelligence.” She huffed. “I wonder if the taskforce refueled and provisioned her. Corporal, go through the Relic’s equipment again.”

  Someone grunted. Sounded like Pallish, but could’ve been some other male.

  “They’re continuing to call,” the pilot said. “The long range shuttle’s is directional, stronger, narrowly focused. The breaching pod’s is weaker and not directional.”

  A clomp and then clatter of equipment—my gear? It was less than a dozen feet away.

  “There’s a stray signal emanating from our shuttle,” the pilot exclaimed. “Brief.”

  Sanchez ordered, “Corporal, you did check and secure the Relic’s com-set?”

  “I did, Captain. It was set on lock out, so I shut the entire unit off. Deactivated it.”

  “Brief and periodic,” the pilot added.

  “Yes, it’s switched off,” Pallish said with assurance. “Completely shut down.”

  “Captain,” the plot said. “If we presume they’re from Intel, they’ll have sensors that can locate and track us. They probably already have and are. The taskforce could too, but they’re still reorganizing.”

  “That won’t take very long. Rear Admiral Tallman will see to that.”

  “I can alter our vector to place the planet between us and the task force—and that shuttle sooner, but—”

  Captain Sanchez cut the pilot off. “Stop, Corporal! Don’t destroy it.”

  “It just flicked on for a second and then deactivated again.”

  “The signal. It’s periodic,” the pilot confirmed. “Every twelve seconds. Encrypted burst. Strong enough to reach the long range shuttle, especially if she has sensitive equipment. And knows what to listen for.”

  “The Relic is known to booby trap his equipment, Corporal.”

  Shuffling of boots on the metal floor preceded Pallish’s question. “What do you want me to do, then?”

  “Pilot, assist him,” the captain said, moving further away from me. “Attach it to one of the signal rockets, along with this. Its magnetic field will eventually destroy the set’s components and software, and any stored data. Set the rocket for a three minute delay, slow burn, toward the planet.”

  The pilot and Pallish were away from the main compartment. The captain was piloting. I hadn’t heard anyone else. Now was my chance. Flexing and straining, I tried to break my bonds. The Stegmar bites ached and burned more than the bite inflicted by unyielding plastic cuffs. The warm trickle of blood told me I’d torn skin and flesh in the effort.

  Slowly I tried to bend at the waist and bring the cuffs below my hips, so I might be able to curl my legs and get beyond my boots. That would be a start.

  My head and face throbbed, while my ribs and shoulders—their stabbing pain brought tears to my eyes as I clenched my teeth down on the gag in my mouth, struggling to remain silent.

  The body bag, as I surmised I’d been stuffed in, magnified the maneuver’s difficulty. They hadn’t sealed the bag so that sufficient air could reach me. If I could wriggle out, that might provide opportunity. What opportunity I didn’t know, but more than what was available inside the bag.

  From a distance, probably the pilot’s seat, Captain Sanchez called, “Corporal, the Relic is awake.” Annoyance more than anger hung in her voice. “Put him back to sleep for a while.”

  Heavy boots clomped over. Timing his arrival I swung my hips and legs, trying to connect with him. Knock him down.

  It’d just piss him off, but it’d make me feel better.

  I successfully managed the maneuver, but without adequate surprise or force.

  With a quick shhissing sound and tug at the bag, light struck my eyes. Pallish’s palm slammed down on my forehead, holding me still. With his other hand he slapped a patch on my neck.

  My eyes took in the surroundings before returning to glare at him. He grinned down at me without saying a word.

  The glimpse of retractable bedding and medical diagnostic equipment said I was lying in the main compartment of a medical shuttle. One of the newer models, unless the military had decided to upgrade the contents of their older ones.

  Some of the newer models were capable of condensed space travel.

  I tried to
think, but my mind was slowing. Would McAllister and the rest of Loki’s Lady be able to track me? Would Fleet help? Get a vector of travel with the crisscross of ships and fighters and attack shuttles that had arrived, then departed and raced back to gain surprise on the enemy?

  My last question before losing consciousness was: Why would they bother?

  Chapter 35

  Dark dreams. Mostly about trudging through mud, or tar, or freshly poured concrete. I awoke feeling exhausted. To the whir of fans and the hum of engines. To the disjointed feeling of condensed space travel.

  I listened. Steady breathing nearby.

  My arms were at my side. I’d wait, wait for the breathing to move further away.

  “I know you’re awake, Specialist Keesay.” The nasal voice of Captain Sanchez emerged from the direction of the breathing. “You were in hybersleep, and I administered the counter drug. Can’t leave you under too long.”

  I opened my eyes to the dimly lit main area of a standard medical shuttle, this one apparently designed around a long range shuttle. Expensive. I didn’t think the military used them, but apparently I was wrong.

  My hands were bound to the fold down bed. Breathing deeply, my chest and abdomen were strapped down as well.

  “I have secured your legs as well, Specialist Keesay. Across the thighs, and each ankle individually, like your wrists and arms.”

  “You’re mistaken,” I said, my throat hoarse and dry. “Corporal Pallish, who I presume brought me to you—”

  She laughed and said, “There’s been no mistake.”

  Even as she laughed and said that, I continued. “I’m 4th Class Security Specialist Corbin Bleys.”

  “Rest assured, Specialist Keesay. Once tipped off to your presence, I verified who you are.”

  I shrugged and winced. My bite wounds hadn’t healed. “I have no idea why you’ve abducted me,” I said, attempting to continue my ruse. What else did I have? “I’ve committed no crimes, haven’t stolen or crossed anyone of wealth that might fund this operation.”